


Ghosts of Things to Come

by jontinf



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Established Relationship, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 10:16:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jontinf/pseuds/jontinf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set eleven years after Arthur’s death, Merlin tends to Gwen and Arthur’s daughter after she wins a tournament.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts of Things to Come

**Author's Note:**

> Big, massive, special thanks to withkissesfour and rubberglue for all their encouragement and insights. This story started out as something to do in breaks during the last couple of busy weeks. It’s my working out feelings over 5x13 and is also drawn from idea I had a couple years ago about the Pendragons having daughters and Merlin acting as a mentor figure to one of them, as his legendary counterpart was to young Arthur. Title taken from Clint Mansell's "Ghosts of Things to Come."

Ariane won the tournament. This was all she cared about—won it purposely at the very last minute, always the showwoman. She was stumbling at the end, sword raised in victory and winking impishly at her younger sister, Elaine. She had bet against Ariane. 

 _You shouldn’t bet against your sister,_ Gwen would say. _Imagine how awful you’d feel if you won._ Knowing exactly how she’d feel, she also never failed to give her sister a token for luck before every tournament.

All the while, above the crowds and cheers, in some unseen corner of the arena, Merlin watched Ariane wave proudly at her mother, and he willed himself to breathe again. It had been too close _, too close_.

No one tried to kill her this time at least.

Merlin had a ritual. Before every tournament, he would lean against a doorframe, arms crossed, sizing up each competitor as they filed passed him into the arena. He would wear a thin, steely-eyed smile that promised to enjoy the misery he would most certainly inflict on anyone who even considered foul play against the princess.

This time, the unthinkable would have come at Ariane’s own arrogance and foolishness—and he would have only blamed himself.

They were seated in his quarters. She gazed reverently at the side of her leg, the spoils of her latest adventure. The bruise was the size of his fist, her skin overrun by sore, menacing, storm cloud shades of blue and black and red _._ The sight unnerved him, even when he knew the science behind the injury, even when he knew it could have been worse.

“It’s _beautiful_ ,” she cooed. “Look at it.”

“I am.” Merlin grimly wiped sweat from his upper lip and then rested his forearm on a perched knee. He looked like he was waiting to be knighted.  After he’d seen his queen widowed, the girls made fatherless, Merlin forced himself to savor little details of what remained, especially in the wake of lucky escapes, the still frequent occurrences of which both plagued and spared him.

Her lucky (now torn) trousers, Elaine’s token and the small gillyflowers tied into her hair, how she absentmindedly kicked a heel of her muddy boots against the bench— even the smug sing-song in her voice. These little details eased his nerves, evidence that she was still in front of him, still whole, still alive.

They served as reminders— _look at what you could have lost._

Splaying his fingers over her skin, he willed out of himself the power to heal. Immediately, she swatted his hand away. “No, don’t magic it _away_. I want to show it off.”

Merlin stared back at her.  Of course she would. She’d lift the hems of her skirt at banquets to boast about her heroics to her knights. Ariane was just months away from a seat at the round table, eventually to be made commander of the army that served not only her mother, but all the kingdoms Gwen had vowed to protect after her husband’s death. She alone left to fulfill their dreams for Albion.

With such reputations to which to live up, Ariane made herself neither afraid of pain nor unable to withstand it, and Merlin understood more and more the meaning behind the things Gaius used to tell him, things he’d dismiss before as sentimental words of an old man.

“I don’t think my heart can take any more of your beauty regimen… _princess._ ” He gritted out the last word.

“Merlin, don’t be like that.”

“Like what?”

“You only call me ‘princess’ when you’re cross with me.”

Over the years, he’d become more of a moody disciplinarian, passive aggressively expressing his displeasure. She’d do something to scare him—something she was doing a lot lately— and he’d change his tone, become more distant, gestures imbued with some unsaid threat that he’d think less of her if she disappointed him, was reckless with herself.

Gwen was better at getting through to the girls. Her daughters loved and feared her at the same time. (Maybe it helped that she was also their sovereign.) Ariane always called his bluff. He could never go through with loving the girl any less. She knew that and would always get her way in the end.

He had been initially surprised by how easily Gwen accepted Ariane’s ambitions for knighthood, especially after what happened to Arthur. She explained it to him in the way that only she could, in the only way that would make him understand:

_I can no more deny her right to the sword than I can deny your right to magic._

 “Father was worse, you know? Always putting himself in danger,” she suddenly insisted, pulling him out of his thoughts.

 _Yes,_ Merlin thought, _he was_. _That’s why you have only me and not him._

He would never say that out loud. That would be too much.

They always talked about her father as though she’d personally known him, better than she did in the time she was given. Sometimes she’d steal into Merlin’s quarters late at night as he was preparing his meal, help herself to a second dinner, and he’d regale her with memories of her father.

He was always retelling stories. She didn’t mind.

“Do you see this white hair?” he pinched some strands of his bangs. “That’s you. I didn’t have a single white hair looking after your father.”

 “I should hope not. You were practically an infant.” She leaned forward challengingly, folding her arms over her lap, “Now you’re an old, crotchety wizard.”

“Prat,” he muttered underneath his breath, but loud enough for her to hear. He wrung a washcloth, damp from a tincture of arnica, trying to busy his hands, feeling silly, feeling his hands useless. It was true, destiny kept giving him magic-squandering prats to look after— he even had to convince _this one_ to get healed.

But then he heard her laugh, and he found himself smiling, in a self-pitying way, thinking of the sight of the two of them, the princess and sorcerer, wretched children forever trying to live up to their dead fathers. He wouldn’t relent on his part—it was his duty to protect her, just as she saw it as hers to protect Albion and her family and even him, even if her duty made his immensely difficult.

Those useless healing hands of his, she had once saved them. He’d made many enemies over the years, slavers from Mercia in this case. They were fond of dismemberment, and unlike one princess of Camelot, they took Merlin’s threats seriously. They had plans on sending the hands of her most trusted advisor back to the Queen as a warning.

Out of nowhere, Ariane, who had been tracking them against Merlin’s wishes, swooped in with a small band of knights, guaranteeing that he stayed as powerful as he was. And the way she moved that sword of hers—the swipes of that steel conjuring spirits from an age long gone, one full of so much hope. Ariane looked down at the first man she had ever saved, cupping his face, her own face gone pale, silently conveying into the air between them that dreaded mantra: _too close, too close._

A gloved hand slapped his shoulder mock-consolingly. She was so pleased with herself. All her best lines came at his expense.

“It isn’t like you’re not handsome in your old age. You know…”

“—well, thank you—”

“—if you squint and imagine someone completely the opposite of you.”

Merlin tried to blink back another smile. He rolled his eyes. Destiny had also given him creatures with whom he found it impossible to stay angry.

“Were you ever handsome, Merlin?”

“I’d like to think I’ve actually gotten better with age.”

 “ _That ugly?_ Poor soul.” She waved her hand magnanimously. “No matter. It let you work on your charm.”

“Perhaps I can interest you in some lessons? Throw in some proverbs on self-preservation, while we’re at it.”

“Ha!” she poked him in the chest. _“You_ , sorcerer, are _no longer_ allowed to be angry with me. I made you smile at least twice just now.”

“If you so long to see me smile, you can let me heal you.” He took the hand that was pointing at him and the other one clutching her thigh, and held them together, as if holding onto her could make her see reason. “The entire kingdom saw you get thrown across the arena. The memory of that should suffice.”

She sighed, exhausted at his relentlessness. Her life wasn’t on the line.

 “It’s just that—” she looked down at their hands, looking hesitant, as if she were about to confess some grave sin. “None of my achievements are real when you’re always there to make it better.”

His hands slipped from hers immediately, and Merlin understood, his heart sinking into his gut. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to be healed—she didn’t want to be healedby _magic,_ his magic.

“Why would you say that?”

She shook her head, over and over again, grasping his hands back into hers. She didn’t mean to hurt him.

“I overheard it.” She looked away when she realized this didn’t make it any better, because she had also let herself believe what she’d heard.

“Who said this?”

Ariane frowned, indignant. “I’m not going to tell _you,_ obviously _._ ”

He already had his suspicions, leftovers of Uther’s council, jealous sons of knights, nobility who resented Ariane’s mother—who also resented him. Magic made it so that two servants now ruled Camelot. His rise in court confirmed those common fears that Uther instilled about sorcery—that it was unnatural, wielded by the cunning and the power-hungry, tricksters and dangerous insurgents, corrupting good men and uplifting the wicked, the undeserving, the unwanted, the mad—just as how Morgana had gone mad, rumors of _mad Merlin_ drifted in the halls of court, the grief over Arthur’s death too much for him to bear. Since he’d returned after Camlann, he could be so quiet, so ruthless sometimes. But that was just another part of him he’d kept hidden until then.

For many, the Golden Age ended with Arthur’s death—even before that, for others, before Arthur started allow sorcerers to have marked graves. That’s how they’d see it written. Ariane embodied everything they hated, a new way of thinking. She had not an ounce of hatred against magic in her bones— but there would be those who’d try to change that. Uther’s reign haunted parts of the kingdom even now.

Merlin’s next words clung to the back of his throat. They came out like a sigh, like a quiet scolding, “Don’t ever underestimate what you are, what you’ve worked so hard to become, what you are going to be.”

Ariane scoffed softly, having heard this all before. “It’s not—” She took the rag soaked in tincture and pressed it against her leg, hissing at the pain slightly. “I need to learn to live without you, Merlin. I need to learn how to be a leader after you’re gone.”

The entire room fell wretchedly quiet. He’d never imagined that she thought like this, already trying to get used to life without him. Did she think the same way about her mother and her sister, that in the end, she’d have no one left?

 “I’m never going to leave you.”

He stared at her solemnly, meaning every single world. The cruelest of the Druids’ prophecies might have been about his own fate. But he’d given up the days of trying to defy destiny, even he was not that powerful.

“You nearly didn’t come back after father died.” Ariane said quietly, as though part of her hoped he wouldn’t hear it. But then she looked back at him, accusingly, with every ounce of hurt she had ever held back from him. “You think I’m too young to remember, but I do. I understand loss too well.”

He came back to the citadel weeks after having watched Arthur and Morgana fade into Avalon. He found Elaine playing on the castle steps and picked her up. The world was spinning and all he’d wanted was to summon the courage to walk into the castle and start life anew. She silently let him hold her small head tightly against his chest, even though she was three, completely unaware of why anyone would pity her, hold her so close. Her sister was five. She’d lived long enough to have memories of having a father, to feel the fear and sadness of facing a world without him.

What had she thought when he almost didn’t return?

He repeated. “I’m never going to leave you.”

The expression on her face told him that she believed him, or rather, that she wanted to believe him.

“What happens when you die? Or do you plan on living forever?”

He felt a knot in his stomach at the thought of having to outlive his loved ones, the purgatory of having perfunctory relationships only to see them end every century. Who could ever plan such a thing?

“I will live as long as you need me to. I promise you that,” he said. “Truth is that I need you more than you need me.”

“Me?”

“Great kings and queens of legend live long in the hearts of people, give them hope, something to fight for… live for. Not everyone can do this. The things I do…” a glint shone in his eye, irreverence at the thought of himself “…any sorcerer could do.”

She shook her head, threw him a wry look _._  “You underestimate yourself,” she said, “You are the greatest sorcerer, but there is much more to you than that.”

The tincture started to drip onto the tips of her boots, and as those last words left her mouth, her eyes widened at a revelation.

_There is much more to you than that._

Suddenly, certain things felt strangely clear, what magic was, what it was to Merlin, what it was to her—and how the world still continued to see it. She grabbed Merlin’s hand and held it over the side of her knee. “Do it before I change my mind.”

“What?”

Her lips curled, as if embarrassed by her own gladness. “Let’s prove them all wrong.”

***

At dawn, Elaine had her arm entwined with Merlin’s as she carefully led him up the steps of the castle tower. He wore a blindfold, he was turning forty one today, and this was tradition. Every birthday, he and the girls would have breakfast on the highest terrace of the castle at dawn. The girls would have the kitchens make his favorite meal, and ever since the year she realized that she could, Elaine would sing for them.

When Merlin almost tripped at a step, Ariane gently placed a hand at his back. “Try to live to your next birthday, will you?”

 “Why do I have to risk breaking my back every year?”

“You’ll savor your breakfast more knowing that you almost didn’t live to eat it,” she replied.

“Nobody thinks you’re funny, sister,” Elaine squeezed his hand, “We’re almost there.”

He’d fretfully counted in his head that they’d walked three hundred of the three hundred and eleven steps of the winding staircase. _Children had the stupidest notions of adventure_.

Finally, Elaine pushed open the door at the top and an expanse of sunlight seeped through the cloth of his blindfold. The coldness of the morning air filled his lungs, instilling some overwhelming, indescribable feeling within him. Despite his outward petulance (also tradition), he looked forward to this every year.

He let go of Elaine’s hand to unfasten the blindfold and found that an impressive picnic was already prepared, and seated amongst spread, with her back to the door, was the Queen of Camelot.

She turned around and smiled serenely at them.

“Happy birthday,” she said, gazing at him, like this was the first time she’d seen him in years, and for some incomprehensible reason, he blushed. He was still breathing hard from the trek up into the sky. He hadn’t expected to see her.

“Our surprise birthday guest this year is mother!” Elaine excitedly announced as she wrapped her arms around Gwen’s neck and pressed her cheek against Gwen as she entwined her fingers into Elaine’s.

Every year, the girls would arrange a new guest at the picnic. The guests had been knights Merlin was close too, or Hunith, or a childhood sweetheart— _that_ was an interesting morning the girls were particularly proud of, as they peered over their goblets and smirked at each other.

The first year, in the last year of his life, the inaugural guest had been their father. The first two or three years were arranged by adults, which meant that Merlin and Arthur did most of the work. It was a disaster. They bickered for most of it as they tried to feed themselves and handle the girls.

Elaine dumped wine on herself, and when Merlin tried to clean the mess with a spell, Ariane poked him in the eye, curious by the golden light in them—to which Arthur responded by kissing her chubby fingers and telling her, “ _Well done, Ariane!_ Better not let any of his enemies know about that little maneuver.”

Not long after, Ariane tried to climb up the barrier and walk off the terrace, and when her father forbid it, she burst into tears at the indignity and would not relent in expressing that point of view. Merlin and Arthur spent the rest of the picnic trying to appease her by making faces and gestures, singing at her, _begging,_ and all the while, trying to insert even one spoonful of food into Elaine’s mouth and not on the rest of her face.

Gwen would find both of them lying on their backs, utterly defeated, drunk, and laughing hysterically at their hopelessness, with the girls cuddled next to them sleeping, having tired out not only themselves, but the two most powerful men in the land.

Weeks later, Arthur would be dying in Merlin’s arms.

Clutching fistfuls of her dress, her jewels clinking with her every gesture, Gwen stood up to meet Merlin. He put his hands at the side of her arms and gave her a kiss on the cheek, “I’m glad you’re here, your highness.”

She took out a bouquet of purple wildflowers from behind and handed it to him. “Purple suits you.” Immediately, they both laughed at this. Her hands hovered over the petals. “I’ve waited to say that again for a long time. It took me eleven years to get an invite to such an exclusive club.”

“That’s not our fault.” Ariane said as she lifted a drumstick onto her plate. “You’re always busy doing something queenly and important.”

Elaine slapped at her hand, “You could at least wait for them.”

Ariane pushed her hand away with the chicken. “I built up an appetite climbing up and down twelve thousand stairs, alright? _Twice._ Why do you always insist on bringing up the food anyway? We have servants for that.”

Elaine was appalled, as though she’d just heard something treasonous. “ _You_ are going to have a revolt on your hands by the time you get to the throne.”

“Maybe if you let me eat something, I’ll have a fair chance of fighting them off.”

“No talk of revolutions before noon,” Gwen told them, seating herself down again next to Merlin.

A revolution might have been the reason she couldn’t attend one year. Merlin had to leave after five minutes, and the only special guest the girls could procure in such dire circumstances was Tybalt the bottler, who was terrible company regardless of political upheaval.

 “Wait!” Elaine yelled, leaving Ariane holding her drumstick pitifully close to her mouth. Moving across the blanket on her knees, Elaine handed Merlin a small basket.  “From all of us.”

 “Don’t eat it,” Gwen added with a smile.

He looked at them warily and then lifted the lid to find a baby owl, nestled in a pouch of straw and cloth. Instinctively, Merlin went to pet its small, soft head. He gasped faintly. “This is— amazing. _Thank you_.”

With each stroke, the little owl’s eyes would close languorously, one eye and then the other, as though it’d just been lulled into a dreamy haze by a few warm cups of ale.

“Mother found him in the stables the other day,” Elaine explained, “and you love animals. I don’t know why we hadn’t thought of it before.”

He reached over to hug both girls at once and then nodded at their mother over their shoulders, “I’m glad you found him.” Just a day ago, he’d thought he’d almost lost Ariane, and now the sun was rising once more. There still existed a part of Camelot, above all the intrigue and the struggle and the weight of every loss, where they could still find peace—a certain peace of their own making.

An hour passed. Merlin and Gwen leaned against the stone barrier of the terrace, the kingdom before them and the girls behind them on the terrace, playing with the Merlin’s as of yet unnamed pet, with Elaine humming a lullaby to it.

Elaine was the court beauty, now beginning to turn heads when she entered rooms, smiling quietly to herself at the things nobody noticed. She would someday make a vigilant and faithful advisor to her sister.

They reminded Merlin of the way Uther’s children had once been, the way they quietly doted on each other, loved each other when they thought no one was watching.

Gwen tucked the smallest of wildflowers from the bouquet into Merlin’s scarf. “I remember when you used to give these to me on Arthur’s behalf.”

 “I might have written some of the notes too,” he winced, “and I just now remembered what I wrote.”

She looked out onto her kingdom. They could already hear the bustle of Camelot beginning another day. The streets, buildings, everything had changed vastly since Merlin had first walked past its gates, becoming grander, seemingly immeasurable, but he’d always thought it so magnificent, greater than anything he’d ever seen. He was always proud of finding himself in such a city and being the one to welcome others into it, as if he were sharing the sweetest secret to happiness that he knew.

“Ariane told me what happened after the tournament.” Gwen’s thumb rubbed against the royal sigil around her neck, a habit she’d picked up over the years, particularly when she thought about her family, about Arthur. She looked at him wistfully. “Thank you.”

It was remarkable. Ariane’s ego was the size of Albion itself, but she never failed to make Merlin look like a hero, when she told her mother about him. She had let him heal her—for many reasons—but he realized that one of those reasons was that it was something he had to do for her, just as Arthur had let Merlin take him to the lake, even when he knew very well he wouldn’t survive.

He shook his head, looking her face over. “What for?”

In a few years, she would have lived life as a queen longer than she had as a servant, and this was how it was always meant to be. Still facing the kingdom, she placed her palm over his, so matter-of-fact, as she’d done many times in the past, wordlessly telling him, _You know what for._


End file.
